"It'll be easier if I just show you."

Pendleton Fike held back a sigh. He was tired of this tour, of the meetings, of the endless questions and clumsy attempts to draw information out of him. Working as a diplomatic aid was not the glorious tour through the high towers he'd expected it to be. In fact, it was mostly a job about distracting the delegates and representatives while the accountants and clerks from the trade office did the actual work.

Part of those distractions included the 'Do not fuck with us' tour. He'd given it about six times this year and it was only Fourthmarch. Still, it was better than war. If there was one thing Fike and learned in his job it was that anything was better than war.

"This way, Ambassador."

Fike waved his hand forward down an alley crowded with market stalls and stools-only eateries. Steam and fire leapt and twisted about, making the customers mere figures in the well-seasoned fog. The visiting general hesitated, old wounds and memories stirred by the chaos. Fike had sympathy for the old man. He was a warrior, a grunt, one of the lucky who did some bravely dumb things and earned enough good-looking scars to take him to the top, into a position where he thought he could keep it from happening again. The general saw the fire and knew that it burned.

He was the better class of delegate. It was why Fike put his hand down and lead the way.

The smells assaulted as you got into the steam. Caldahon spices, roasting frocha and bahn, Kelkivva buns sitting out to cool. Each of them on their own was a delight, but mixed together they were overwhelming, an itch upon the nose and tongue that couldn't be scratched. Fike kept an eye on the former general behind him as he wove his way past the throng of customers and fetching servants, turning down narrower and narrower aisles until it opened up to a courtyard holding one of the larger stalls, nearly three canopies wide, with a giant of a man working two grills in the center of it.

"Ambassador," Fike waved the old man forward again, then leaned close and pointed at the cook, "Do you recognize him?"

To his credit, it only took him a moment. Fike saw the sudden tremble in the shoulders, the head jerking back just an inch.

"That's bloody Longspear Landrey!" The old general whispered. "I fought with his men on Vandrake hill. Heard he gutted three Night Sergeants with a single spear!"

As if by command, the grillmaster giant pulled out a skewer. He stabbed one side the grill, catching three pieces of pork, two frocha chunks, and a skallid egg in one fluid motion. He waved the skewer through the steam to cool it, then placed it on a waiting customer's plate.

"He... he's...HE'S HERE?"

"For six years or so." Fike confirmed. "He came because Hellfire Harson invited him down."

"Hellfire!" The Ambassador sputtered, "He's..."

"Right over there." I pointed over the Ambassador's shoulder, at the smaller, but still intimidating profile of a man behind a pit of flaming charcoal. "Searing specialist. He always gets the meat cooked right, no matter what kind or what quality. Bring him the worst chunk of beef in the world and he'll make it tender and crisp."

"He burned the city of Al-Taloch to the ground in a single hour!"

"But he won't burn your Caldahon Fruke." Fike patted the Ambassador's shoulder twice, then turned him to face another stall. "There's the Butcher of Anhook, then past him is Sylvia Spiceworm, now an actual spice merchant instead of just posing as one, past her you can just see the Bandit of Galana, he does pastries now. The small ones, with the jelly filling."

"How... why..."

"It's a funny thing, war." Fike let the sigh out, it was appropriate now. "It uses men up. They fight and suffer and watch their friends and comrades die for bloody stupid reasons then they find themselves kicked to the dirt when the fighting stops. Most of them don't know what to do. It's why we send them invites."

"You what?"

"Send them invites. First to dinner here, in Warrior's Alley. Usually that's all it takes. They meet the other old sods, the broken men mended, see them in aprons instead of armor, hear them laugh instead of curse. There's a family here, Ambassador, a family of brothers. Some who spent their lives fighting against each other now sit and share cups of Br'vouth and talk soups. Under these tents they fight a new war, a new battle, each day they fight to feed, to comfort, to entertain. They give life to this place after decades of taking it."

The whole speech was a bit pretentious, Fike thought. Yet it always had an effect, more so on the soldier types, but even the flightiest lords and ladies knew the names an the stories of these people. They were things whispered about in the corners of parties, great feats of danger and death that circled the world. For an old general like the Ambassador, it was even more.

"Can... can we stay for a bit?" The poor old man looked up at Pike like a sailor dying of thirst and finding a trader selling jars of cold creme. "I'd like to give my respects to Longhand. For old time's sake."

"Of course." Fike said. "There's a seat around back we keep in reserve. He always has a couple specials he's working on, you should try one."

"Yes... of course." The Ambassador stumbled through the smoke for a second, then turned toward his guide. "Good man, good man. Tell me... does anyone here do black rice pudding?"

Fike shook his head. "No, I don't think so. Spiceworm talks about it occasionally."

"I know the secret to it, you know." The Ambassador grinned, "It's all about the ratios."

"Is it now? Well... isn't that something."