Tristan’s group moved away from the construction and rounded the same corner from which they’d approached. Since Matt had the other side of the Shell, he didn’t want to overlap their resources. Thankfully there was a small tavern a few buildings down from the corner.

Though, calling “The Zango” a tavern was a gross exaggeration. It was one dark, mid-sized room with a crooked bartop blocking the two shelves of spirits behind it. Two candles burned on either side of the bar—the only light in the room—and one burned so low that Tristan wondered if it had more than a few minutes left.

A petite catgirl with a bandana tied in her hair leaned against the wall between the shelves of alcohol. Her pale eyes focused on a piece of parchment she clutched tight between her forefinger and thumb. Her ears flicked forward when Tristan and his Party crossed the threshold. 

Her gaze raised to his face, though her chin didn’t move. “Sit wherever.”

 A single paltry table stood cramped into one corner with three mismatched seats around it—as if they’d each been dug up from separate locations. Three more barstools in various states of impairment were shoved beneath the bar. 

“Zahra, Destiny, why don’t you bring two of those chairs up to the bar?” Tristan pointed at the seats beneath the dirty table, holding the exhausted worker beneath one arm. Shira. He’d managed to at least procure her name while they walked, but little else.

Dusting off one of the barstools, Tristan helped Shira sit down. The red in her face was slowly fading, replaced by a healthier shade of tanned cheeks. However, her lips were chapped beyond belief, and her cracked, scabbed hands were caked with dirt and stone residue.

Tristan glanced over the shelves. The unlabeled bottles varied in size and color and contained all manner of liquids. “Do you have any water?” He doubted it, but his canteen was starting to run low.

“Rations aren’t for three more days.” The hostess smirked, a single sharp fang poking over her lower lip. “Or do all men get special treatment?”

“No. It’s not for me.” Tristan glanced at Shira and the canteen.

“You should keep it for yourself, sir. It was nice enough for you to offer it.” Shira pushed the container back toward him and licked her chapped lips. “I feel a little better.”

“Finish it off, Shira. I’ll figure something out.” Shira narrowed her eyes and cocked her head like this was some sort of test. “Really. I mean it.”

“Thank you.” She pulled the canteen back, her fingers shaking with its weight, and stole another sip from the top.

“You gonna order something or not?” The hostess snapped, shoving the parchment in the pocket of her baggy pants. “Loitering is prohibited.”

Tristan frowned, wondering what could possibly be in the bottles behind the bar that he would recognize. 

Zahra answered for them. “Five blood and sands.”

The hostess turned and lifted two bottles from the shelf to her left, jiggling their contents, then holding it to the candlelight. “I should have enough for those.”

“I’m guessing no ice?” Tristan asked.

“They’re better warm,” Zahra replied, shooting the hostess a glare as she opened her mouth to retort.

“Got it.” Their hostess procured a smaller bottle from the shelf to the right, then five dust-lined glasses from below the bar. Tristan lowered his voice and murmured. “Thanks, Zahra.”

“Anytime.” Zahra grinned.

Tristan swiveled back to Shira, running a hand through his damp hair. Taking solace in The Zango’s walls had helped them escape the unrelenting sun, but the heavy heat remained. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Shira nodded. “You saved my life. I owe you that much.”

“And more for the water,” Zahra added, gesturing to the near-empty canteen.

Shira blushed. Tristan considered saying otherwise, but Zahra’s approach was a good one. The more information he could get directly from a Third Shell citizen, the better. “Why do the Ejderha have you building a gate?”

“So that we can start construction on a Fourth Shell wall. There’s only one way into this place right now, and that’s the gate you went through when you got here,” Shira explained.

“I saw two gates into the Second Shell, too,” Destiny added.

The gates weren’t the part that surprised him. “The girls here can barely sustain themselves as it is. Why a Fourth Shell?”

“The Third Shell is out of space. There are travelers that come every day seeking a place to live. A chance to get in King Magni’s good graces. His answer was to build another one.”

Tristan puzzled through her response, attempting to distill Magni’s intentions through his actions. Or, maybe intentions was the wrong word. What were his desires? To have the island’s population closer to home? Why? There weren’t nearly enough resources to support the Third Shell, let alone a fourth. “Do you know a lot about the trade that goes on here?”

“What do you mean?” Shira asked.

Tristan tried again. “What I mean is, do you ever see imports from other islands trade hands? Or do you have access to traveling merchants?”

“Oh. That’s… complicated,” Shira murmured. “Any travelers are stopped here and forced to stay in the Third Shell. A few members of the Ejderha will trade the King’s Bells for goods they need in the First and Second Shells, and they’re taken directly there.”

“Does the Third Shell not trade with them?”

“We don’t have the fucking coin,” the hostess growled, pushing Tristan’s glass into his hand with more force than necessary. “Does this look like a place that can afford San Island spices? Shi Island fabrics?”

As much as the entire situation sawed his skin like sandpaper, Tristan understood her anger. It was mistargeted, but aiming it toward the right person was impossible. With how things were going, if she did try to speak up against the status quo, it was a quick way to die. “What’s your name, miss?”

She paused, working her jaw. Her eyes glittered with a mixture of surprise and contempt—she’d been expecting Tristan to lash back. “Haleli.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“You got a point?” Haleli pushed the other drinks to the rest of his group.

“Hey! He’s trying to be nice, and you’re being a jerk,” Destiny retorted. “Stop being so… so mean!”

Tristan hid a chuckle behind a cough.

Haleli whipped on her heel, turning back to face him like a cornered predator. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Certainly not your situation.” He shook his head and cleared his throat. “I’m on your side here.”

“We all are, Haleli,” Lara said suddenly. “Wind says you’ve had a very hard life here. Tristan wants to fix it.”

“Excuse me?” Haleli snorted.

Zahra lifted a bag of Bells from her [Cat Pack] and a filled canteen. Sliding them across the bartop, she leveled Haleli’s gaze. “Why don’t you take the time to listen and make your own judgments? It won’t cost you anything.”

Haleli gave both the bag and the container a long, wary glance. Her ears twitched toward Zahra before she accepted both offerings in silence.

Tristan took a sip of his drink. It was deep sanguine—much like its name would suggest—and heavily spiced. A buried memory swam in front of his eyes as the flavor coated his tongue.  A crackling fire and the blinking lights of a Christmas tree. His grandmother handing him a small cup of mulled wine in secret with a finger to her lips. He blinked the scene away, focusing instead on the warmth trailing down his chest.

“You’re right. It is good warm,” Tristan murmured to Zahra before returning to questioning Shira. “Are you paid for your construction work?”

Shira tilted her head. “In a sense. The Ejderha feed us two meals a day and three servings of water.”

“How much water do they give you?”

“Enough to fill this glass, I think.” Shira wiggled her drink between her fingers.

“That’s not fair at all!” Destiny cried.

“Hm.” Lara drummed her fingers against the bar. “Water says that there is enough inside for all of Rājadhānī’s girls. However, she very much enjoys being needed.”

But why? Why not increase ration sizes or quantity? “I haven’t seen farms or plantations of any kind since we arrived. Where does your food come from?”

“It’s just like the water. Food is rationed out of the First and Second Shells,” Shira grumbled. “There are catgirls who are fit enough to hunt outside the walls, but you won’t find any in the Third Shell.”

“Allow me to elaborate. Many of the outlying cities used to have farmers who raised crops and Encroachers and were well-versed in desert irrigation. My city, Madhyam, was one of them. When work began on the Shells, they were called to the castle and never seen again.” Zahra swirled her drink in thought. “He made the same request of hunters. Offering them gratuitous Bells and a life of luxury. That’s when my sister moved here.”

“And you didn’t?” Tristan asked.

Zahra shook her head. “I couldn’t leave my mother and home to the wolves. Someone had to protect them.”

A realization crept into the back of Tristan’s mind. Magni’s hoarding whatever he can. Bells, food, water, imports, catgirls. It doesn’t matter the cost or the consequence.

“The hunters from the inner shells. Do they go out often to hunt?” Tristan asked Shira.

“Almost every morning. Just as the first light touches the sky,” Shira replied.

“And they have to go through one of those gates?” 

“Yes. Typically the south one, since both gates on that side are complete.”

A rough plan was beginning to form. Sneaking in wouldn’t be an option with the Ejderha, but they had other means of causing enough of a stir. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.

“Shira, I was wondering. What did Maibe mean when she said she’d put you in the wall?” Destiny asked.

Shira took a long draw from the blood-red tonic, and a shiver ran down her spine. They waited patiently for her to finish before the quivering words escaped her lips. “For those who die working on a Shell, their corpses are built into the walls.” Her face paled, and she chewed her lip. “The same happens to those who can’t complete their tasks.”

Tristan’s fingers and toes went numb. A high-pitched squeak escaped Destiny’s lips, and Lara stared at Shira wide-eyed. Zahra’s knuckles around her glass turned white.

“Here’s a question for you, Tristan.” Haleli leaned against the bar, eyes burning into the side of Tristan’s head. “What are you gonna do about it?”