Clusters of rowan berries strung between the shelves alongside chains of sausages. Hard black bread, the sort that would break the teeth but never go bad. Salted fish. Pots of honey and hazelnuts. Dulse. Dried apples. Cheese. Heath-fruits. Winter-desiccated carrots and parsnips bundled together by their wilting greens.
Ninian’s jaw dropped.
He’d never seen so much food in one place. His stomach growled of its own accord, and Ninian wrapped his arms around his middle. Aghast, he reached out to touch a shriveled carrot, as if he might be imagining it. “Doesn’t seem quite right, does it?” he said under his breath, awestricken. “For one person to have all this?” It would have fed a whole family for months, probably even the whole winter. This stash would rot before anyone alone could finish it all.
Máel Máedóc couldn’t possibly miss a little bit of it.
Before he’d consciously given himself permission, Ninian had an apple in his hand, and then an apple in his mouth and a sausage in his hand, then a sausage in his mouth and a fistful of hazelnuts in his palm. He ate without thinking. He gnawed on bricklike bread. He ripped chunks out of cheese. He drank honey like it was water.
It was paradise. The food never ran out; his reaching hands always landed on something else, and without thinking, Ninian ate. He couldn’t believe that this had been here all this time, waiting while he starved in the streets… it didn’t matter anymore. He was here, feasting as in a story of a grand wedding or a banquet after a glorious battle, and the voice of reason in the back of his mind went silent for the first time in as long as he could remember.
He was more satisfied than he’d been after the duck, more satisfied than he’d been since his mother and father had made him pray before meals of fish and cabbage and sloe jam. This was paradise. This was—
His heart stuttered.
The realization of what he’d done constricted around his chest as he set down a half-empty jar of pickled carrots.
When he stole, he stole and ran. If peddlers came after him, they just kicked him a few times, took back what was theirs, and Ninian tried again somewhere else.
This was different.
He had been distracted for too long. He had let his guard down, and he had… oh, Gods. He looked around the shelves. Empty jars. Ravaged cheese. Scattered nuts.
He had lost control.
He pressed his hands over his mouth.
He needed to run.
“Boy.”
Ninian’s heart plummeted to his full stomach.
Slowly, he turned around. At the last moment, he squeezed his eyes closed as if he couldn’t be hurt by that which he couldn’t see. As if he didn’t already know the lie of such foolishness.
“Open your eyes, boy.”
Ninian did. And shrank back as, once again, his heart lurched.
He had seen Máel Máedóc from afar. The man was one of the most powerful people in the whole city—the most powerful man without a gang behind him—and even from a distance, it was clear that he carried that power in his very being. But up close… Máel Máedóc’s eyes burned a brilliant, hot blue in the light of the candle he carried, and his hair was braided back severely against his scalp. On the left side of his face—a face that was all sturdiness and hard angles—a single scar split his dark skin.
“I’d ask what you were doing,” Máel Máedóc said. “But I think it’s pretty clear.”
There was nothing for Ninian to say. The shopkeeper stood between Ninian and his escape, and even Ninian didn’t have enough pent-up anger to hotheadedly fight Máel Máedóc. He couldn’t run, couldn’t fight, and wouldn’t beg, and so he simply stood and stared with fear at the giant man before him.
“Nothing to say?” Máel Máedóc said, eyes narrowing dangerously.
Ninian swallowed hard. He’d die with the taste of honey on his tongue. Perhaps he couldn’t ask for more than that, but the sweetness was turning bitter. “No, s-sir.”
Máel Máedóc leaned back, a single eyebrow creeping up his forehead. “Did you say ‘sir?’” He looked darkly amused. “What do you think you are, royalty?”
“Yes, sir.” Ninian licked his lips nervously, wishing he could stop saying ‘sir.’ “It’s old though, sir.”
The shopkeeper set down the candle and let out a guffaw. “And I’m the King of the Maze.”
“That’s arguably true, sir,” Ninian said. His voice had grown terribly small. At least he wasn’t stuttering too badly; he’d struggled mightily with that when he was younger, and it still resurfaced when he got nervous—just like his proper manners. He wished he could shout at the shopkeeper, to lose his fear to blessed fury, but he had a feeling that would quickly end his life.
“Tell me, boy,” Máel Máedóc said, and Ninian flinched as he saw Máel Máedóc’s hand twitch. “Does noble blood mean you can help yourself to my things?”
Ninian shook his head. All of that food felt like it had hardened to a stone in the pit of his stomach. “N-no, sir.”
Máel Máedóc leaned on the nearest shelf, which creaked and tipped to the side. For a long moment, he just stared at Ninian.
“I wonder,” the giant shopkeeper said after a while, and Ninian did his best to stand tall. He didn’t want to die cringing. “How many years you got?”
Ninian drew a shaky breath. “Eleven, sir.”
“Eleven,” Máel Máedóc repeated introspectively. He sighed. “I’ll tell you something.” He inclined his head toward Ninian conspiratorially. “If you were older and a little less pathetic, I would break your neck.”
Ninian’s breath caught in his throat.
The shopkeeper’s bright blue eyes narrowed, and there was no mistaking the anger behind them. “But I’m not going to do that.”
Ninian froze. And then he blinked. “W… what?”
Slowly, Máel Máedóc nodded. “I’m going to let you leave today.”
It was a trap. The man was playing with him. Máel Máedóc, who tolerated no theft, whose moral code was legendary in the Maze, had to be joking.
Or worse… he wanted something.
Ninian took a step back, wrapping his arms around himself. “Please don’t touch me.”
Máel Máedóc clearly noted Ninian’s expression. “I expected gratitude, boy.”
Ninian shook his head. “Nothing’s free. You wouldn’t just let me leave.”
“I’m no liar.”
Ninian squeezed himself so hard it ached. His back hit a shelf, and he stumbled to the floor, where he scooted as far away from Máel Máedóc as he could.
Máel Máedóc frowned. “You’re not wrong,” he said after a little while. “What you’ve done isn’t free. You can go, but I do expect to be repaid.”
Ninian’s eyes felt suddenly hot, and twin tears that he hadn’t summoned rolled down his face. They surprised him. “Don’t touch me, sir. I swear, I’ll—” He hesitated, not sure if he should finish with a threat or a vow. The threat was tempting, but Ninian didn’t think it would be effective, so he tripped over his words to manage “I’ll do anything else you want.”