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(Page 2 of 5) Snowtear, Chapter Three by Sam Davidson When can you have them ready?"
"For you, Mon Snowtear," Fedro said, twirling his wiry mustache in contemplation, "no more than four days."
"Fine. I'll need something to tide me over till then."
"Search the tables. I am sure I have something suitable for a man of your taste."
"My thanks," Riken said.
"Care for some wine while you look?"
"You need to ask?" By choice, as well as necessity, he made it a point to lower his stipend of drink while on a job, but he liked to ease into it.
"Very good," Fedro said, his pudgy cheeks wrinkling with a smile. He exited through the archway behind the counter, leaving Riken to peruse the selection in solitude. There were three round tables in Fedro's showroom, each containing a few piles expertly folded attire.
He took his time, settling on a woolen tunic with a fur inline, a matching pair of cream trousers, and a white undershirt only after Fedro had refilled his glass twice. He changed in the back room and left the clothes he'd come in with for the amenable merchant to dispose of.
On the street, he stopped for a spell to extol his reflection in a shop window. A cold breeze bit at the tips of his ears. He needed a new hat and coat, as well.
Bagenn's leather store was one of his favorite establishments. He adored the musty smell of the place, and old Toma Bagenn's daughter wasn't too hard on the eyes. Whenever he had need of a leatherworker, there was no better place. It helped that he had a standing fifteen percent discount on all merchandise, due to a little bind Riken had helped the old man out of a few cycles back.
A group of local miscreants had taken it upon themselves to rid Toma of his storefront windows. Each time he replaced them, the next morning he'd find a handful of fresh rocks and broken glass adorning his floors. After the third time, Toma had sent his daughter Prentice to call on Riken. Even without the healthy pile of lyn the girl had stacked on his table, the exhibition of ample bosoms heaving within her constricted bodice had given Riken little recourse to deny his services.
Huddled in an alleyway, he'd staked out the shop for two nights, then watched as a pack of six youths toting bottles of wine and pockets of rocks laid waste to the cheap pane of glass he'd suggested Toma purchase and install. He'd expected the perpetrators to be from the one of the lower Rows, but judging from their attire, he'd doubted they'd ever stepped foot past Crafters' Row, the recognized dividing line between Winter Moon's wealthy and poor.
The youths, none more than fifteen cycles, had executed their vandalism with unabashed relish-singing bawdy limericks, howling at the midnight moon, giving no thought to the folly of their vandalism.
The next night, after Toma had installed yet another pane, Riken, with Uther in toe, had interrupted the youths' merry indulgence. After the second hurled rock had bounced off Uther's chest with little fanfare, Riken had made all five strip and sit naked in the snow for an hour while he regaled them with tales of the palace dungeons.
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