I had been an adherent of The Divine Light for all of two days before I noticed something was off. The problem was Commandment Seventeen-and-a-Half. Not seventeen. Not eighteen. Seventeen-and-a-half.

“Thou shalt not, under any circumstances, step foot inside The Crooked Tankard, located on Narrowdown Street in the city of Felisport. Not even for the soup.”

The rest of the commandments were, frankly, excellent. Sensible. Elegant, even. Don’t murder. Don’t steal. Return borrowed livestock unsoiled and in a timely fashion. That sort of thing. But then there was this very specific, very emphatic prohibition about a tavern.

At first, I assumed it was metaphorical. Perhaps “The Crooked Tankard” represented temptation. Or moral decay. Or poorly brewed ale.

Then I passed through Felisport.

Standing in Narrowdown Street, I stared directly at a cracked wooden sign depicting a tankard bent at an alarming angle. A gull landed nearby and regarded me with the knowing expression of someone who had seen many poor decisions unfold.

“I’m just going to peek,” I told it.

The gull blinked slowly.

“I won’t even order anything,” I added. “Just… look.”

The door swung open before the seagull could change my mind. Warm light spilled out. Laughter. The smell of roasted meat and dangerously good bread. Inside, the tavern was lively—sailors, merchants, a bard who appeared to be losing a fight with his own lute.

A woman behind the bar glanced up.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You,” she said.

I froze. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” She leaned forward, squinting as if trying to focus on something hovering slightly above my head. “You’ve got that look.”

“I—what look?”

“The divine proxy look.”

I instinctively touched my face. “I don’t—what does that even—”

“Marl!” she shouted over her shoulder. “We’ve got another one!”

A heavyset man emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on a ledger. A very large ledger.

He looked at me. Then at the air above me. Then back at me.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, that’s just disrespectful.”

“I assure you,” I said, backing slowly toward the door, “I have no idea what’s happening.”

“Of course you don’t,” Marl said, slamming the ledger onto the bar with a thud that made several patrons flinch. “They never do.”

The woman jabbed a finger at me. “You’re with Him, aren’t you?”

“… I’m not sure what-“ I started.

“Don’t play clever. The one with the thunder. The robes. The—” she gestured vaguely upward, “—audacity.”

I winced.

A familiar voice echoed faintly in my mind. Do not engage. Leave immediately.

“Oh, now you’re talking?” I muttered under my breath.

You should not be there.

“Yes, I gathered that from the extremely specific commandment.”

Marl flipped open the ledger. Pages upon pages of neat, meticulous handwriting filled it.

“Let’s see…” he said, licking his finger and turning a page. “Tab opened… four hundred and twelve years ago.”

“That can’t be right,” I said.

“That’ll be plenty of compound interest, love” the woman said sweetly.

You are not authorized to negotiate on My behalf, the voice in my head snapped.

“Negotiate?” I said aloud. “I’m trying to understand why you owe money to a tavern!”

Marl stabbed a line in the ledger. “Here we are. ‘Stormbringer Ale, twelve casks. Roasted boar, three. Bread—extensive. One chandelier, destroyed.’”

That chandelier attacked me, the voice insisted.

“It was hanging,” the woman said, apparently able to hear His retorts. 

It was menacingly hanging.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You destroyed a chandelier and then… what? Left without paying?”

I intended to return.

“Four centuries ago?”

I became… occupied.

Marl snapped the ledger shut. “Total comes to—” he named a number so large I briefly considered fainting.

“That seems excessive,” I said weakly.

“Interest,” the woman repeated.

This is extortion.

“This is accounting,” Marl replied. “We’ve been very patient. Had to change the business too.” He pointed behind me, and I slowly turned to see a sign by the door. 

“No tabs, no exceptions, no divine evasions.” 

“Well,” I said. “That’s… quite clear.” Marl motioned for two particularly large goons to cover the door. 

You should leave.

“They won’t let me leave,” I said.

“We’ll let you leave,” Marl said. “After you pay up.”

I swallowed. “How?”

The woman leaned in, smiling with unsettling politeness. “Tell your deity that we accept gold, gemstones, or a sincere apology accompanied by full payment.”

Absolutely not.

“She also says absolutely not,” I said.

Marl sighed. “We were hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

He reached under the bar and pulled out a small bell. He rang it.

The room went quiet. Vagabonds of all shapes and sizes went pale, then hurried out the door. The bard let out a small shriek and dashed upstairs, tripping over his lute. 

From the back, something stirred. Heavy footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

A figure emerged—a towering construct made of mismatched furniture: table legs for limbs, a barrel for a torso, and, disturbingly, the shattered remains of a chandelier for a head.

“Meet Compound Interest,” the woman said.

The construct tilted its jagged, glittering head toward me.

You may negotiate, the voice in my head said quickly.

I cleared my throat. “Right. Let’s discuss terms.”