Closed to Bellus.
Scara Brae, if it really tried, could take a man’s breath away. During the summer months it was a hot and sticky mess, similar to a cinnamon bun left out in the heat. Soggy, sorry looking and trying to be something it’s not. Only people who lived there, or in Leopold Winchester’s case, had invested considerable time and money into the city’s brickwork held it in high regard. People in Corone often joked that Scara Brae was the dirty little secret of the empire. It was something to laugh about. It was somewhere to send estranged aunts.

“I don’t remember it being this busy last year,” he mused aloud.

Market Square, perhaps one of the few places in the city people went to voluntarily, was heaving. People were standing shoulder to shoulder around the myriad stalls and pushing and shoving their way through crowds and into, and out of one another’s pockets. It was a den of mercantile variety as much as criminal ingenuity.

“You weren’t sober most of last year,” Jeren replied, witty as ever.

Leopold shrugged. Whilst his second in command was right as ever, he was also in a war with Old Gods, his wife, and several ex-lovers about who ‘owned’ his unmentionables. You could forgive a man under that much pressure for occasionally turning a blind idea to his home going to shit.

“Still. Makes you wonder where everyone’s come from.”

Jeren picked up a dusty candelabrum and began to polish it with shammy leather. He cast an eye over the crowd, top hat and coal stained faces blurring together in a torrent of shouts, profanity, and mother jokes. He had to admit, Scara Brae was busy, and even their niche market business peddling war relic had picked up nicely.

“I guess we’re seeing an influx of visitors from the mainland, all eager to escape the fighting.” He wasn’t sure if there even was any fighting in Corone anymore. The Civil war had ended years ago, but it was so fresh in their minds it might have been only yesterday.

“No. Look closer,” Leopold said softly. He narrowed his gaze.

The crowd was half Scara Braen, the unmistakable odour of class divide mixed with the razzmatazz of a city on the rise, and half foreigner. Leopold had lived in Berevar, and been at war with Salvar’s weather long enough to know a barbarian when he saw one. Every few passers-by also had pointed ears or tattoos that marked them as a Bedouin – a native of Fallien.

“You’re right,” Jeren attacked a grease stain with belligerent ferocity, then, when satisfied the brass was shining, set it back onto the table. “Are they refugees, perhaps?” He raised an eyebrow.

Leopold could only wonder. He was certainly not going to complain. The multicultural brick and mortar of the island was always part of its spurious glamour and now it was a spurious glamour that lined his company's coffers. Queen Valeena’s recent motion to become an independent state might have played a part in changing people’s perceptions about Scara Brae. Perhaps it was becoming its own island haven. Leopold chuckled.

“Is something funny?” Jeren enquired. His eyebrow flat lined, and he folded his arms across his chest. His white shirt creased, revealing sweat marks caused by standing too sober for too long in too much heat.

“They might see it as a shining little fresh start now,” the merchant explained, “but give it a month of pigeon shit and getting shanked in the Novello Slums and they’ll soon long for Salvarian Ice Wine or the desert tundra.”

“Hey now,” Jeren chuckled. It was the first time he had laughed properly all morning. “That’s an insult to the pigeons.”

They laughed together as a pair of fisherman began to examine a mahogany chest at the end of the stall. Jeren responded immediately with a barrage of fake hellos and sales techniques Leopold had drilled into his military mind with the force of a hurricane. Leopold observed, trying to look busy with the merchandise whilst he cringed at every nuance in his second’s business patter.

“Give me a sword and a man to take me on an adventure again,” he whispered under his breath.

Four streets connected the city to Market Square. Thousands of people came into and out of, or hurried through it was a last resort every day. On this day, in this particularly fierce heat wave, one set of boots slapped on the cobbles in front of Leopold’s store that would grant him his wish. He swallowed hard, suddenly tense. He looked up at the customer, and immediately recognised him as a Fae.

“Hello there, sir. How can I help you?” He clapped his hands together enthusiastically, and smiled with the smile that had won women and caused wars.