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As Martin had expected, the Central District of Fordham was night-and-day different from the Northern District. By moonlight, firelight, and lamplight, the pair navigated the dirt sidewalks that flanked the corduroy skid road. Even after dark, a few horse teams were carting bucked logs along the road to be stacked at the sawmill for the following day's sawyers to trim into lumber. The smell of earth, horse manure, and brimstone reminded Martin of Vernon in some ways, but the humidity of the air gave the street an altogether almost sickly feel. He reasoned that the brimstone smell was likely due to the proximity of this part of town to marshlands or some similar sulfur rich formation. However, the street, despite having a reputation for being a dangerous place and neither looking nor smelling particularly pleasant, was teeming with life even after dark. Laughter, children playing, and music could be heard from all directions as they walked down the road: the sounds of people of little means making the best of things with what they had. Martin couldn't help but smile at the thought.

The pair walked down the main road, following the sound of laughter and clapping, until they approached Joplin's Hotel & Bar. A few drifters sat outside, one smoking a cigarette, a couple playing cards, and one simply loitering outside the saloon doors. They all turned to look at Martin and Namo as they approached the bar. Martin wordlessly tipped his felt hat and pushed the saloon doors aside, leading Namo into the crowded bar.

Raucous laughter and clapping accompanied an equally exuberant performance by a fiddler and tambourinist who struggled to even be heard over the cacophony of the bar's patrons. “You picked a nice place!" Namo shouted over the noise as they approached the bar on the left side of the watering hole, directly behind which was the elevated stage. Martin gestured to a pair of empty stools and Namo hopped onto one, her short, fluffy tail very slightly extending off the side of the stool. The man sat next to her, taking the stool to her left. “Maybe save your praise until you see the rooms," he replied, leaning to her ear so he didn't have to shout.

“Rooms?" Her head tilted in query.

“Yeah, we'll be spending the night here, won't we?"

“Oh, right! I s'pose we will, huh? I've never been to a place like this before. That's what a hotel is, right? A place with rooms where people can sleep?"

Martin, who had leaned toward Namo to hear her better, nodded, then gestured toward the stairs to their right. “Guessing the rooms are up those stairs. We can ask the rate for 'em in a sec once the bartender has a spare moment."

Namo leaned forward on the counter and propped her head on her tawny-furred palms, listening intently to the music. Meanwhile, the bartender, a stout woman with a beak for a nose, who looked like she had seen a little too much of the world for her liking, noticed the two of them waiting to have their orders taken and sauntered over. “Evenin', travelers. Been a while since a faun stopped by my humble establishment. I'm Maggie Joplin, owner and proprietor. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Namo tore away her attention from the performers with considerable effort. “It's great to meetcha, Maggie! My name is Ke'eponuunamo, but you can call me Namo. This is my friend Martin." Martin made a slight gesture that could be interpreted as a wave. “I gotta say, this place is super lovely! Do you get Akepmuu in very often?"

“Eh, about once a month or so, but I haven't seen any in a couple months now." She produced a pair of glasses from under the bar. “So anyways, what can I get for ya?"

“What's on the menu for tonight, Ms. Joplin?" Martin inquired.

“Please, just Maggie," the bartender replied with a dismissive wave. “We got beef stew with carrots and potatoes. My son is in the back and just finished making a fresh pot a few minutes ago." She gestured with her thumb behind the stage. “We can take the beef out of the stew for the vegetarians," presumably referring to Namo. Martin wondered if either Joplin or Namo recognized that the broth would still have beef in it, but decided discretion was the better part of valor in this instance.

“Alright, well, I suppose we'll get two bowls of the stew, I'll take a whiskey, neat, and we'll be renting two rooms for the night."

The bartender had already started pouring an unlabeled bottle of rotgut before he finished his sentence. “Alright. You settin' up a tab?"

“No ma'am. We've been on the road all day and I'll likely be turning in after my sleeping medicine," he said, motioning toward the glass of whiskey she had placed in front of him.

“Very well then. That'll be 49 cred," the bartender replied expectantly.

Martin turned to Namo. “How much you got on you, Namo?" After a moment, Namo again managed to tear herself away from the musical performance. “Like, how much money do I have on me?"

“Yes, that is, in fact, what I'm asking," Martin replied curtly.

“I wasn't lying earlier when you asked me how much I had on me. I don't have no money. I'm sorry," she said, sincere in her remorse.

Martin turned back to Ms. Joplin. “How much if we cut out one room and one dinner?"

The bartender raised an eyebrow. “27 cred, in that case."

Martin pondered for a moment. If Namo didn't have any money, she wouldn't get a place to stay and would have to go forage for some grass or something, he reasoned. Besides, she was probably used to sleeping outside. He looked over at her. She was staring at the performers again, all but slack-jawed. She looked happy, almost euphoric, even. He chewed on his lip. “Hey, Namo."

Namo did not respond. She was gently swaying to the tune of the jig that was being played on the fiddle. “Namo? Hello, Namo?" Martin waved his hand in front of her face to get her attention.

“What is it?" She said, startled. “Oh, I-I'm sorry, I totally wasn't paying attention." Her tunnel vision clearly embarrassed her, and she fiddled with her hands as she continued. “This music is so beautiful, and so different from home, but it reminds me of my friends and family in Jeju nonetheless. And it makes me think of the past, like when I was a little girl. What's the word for that again?"

“Nostalgia." Martin wasn't really in the mood for her exposition with the transaction hanging over them. “I don't have enough cred."

“What does that mean?"

“It means I can't afford rooms and food for the both of us."

Namo looked at the performers again and Martin worried that she had ignored him. But after a moment of thought, she turned to the patient Maggie and asked “Is there some other way I could pay?"

Maggie sneered, obviously misinterpreting the faun's intent. “Not sure how they do things in faun-land but let me make myself clear: I'm trying to run a respectable establishment here."

“What about them?" Namo asked, pointing at the performers currently on stage.

“What do you mean, what about them?"

“Do you pay them?"

“Well, yeah, but I don't see how that—“

Namo interrupted her by leaning over the counter. “Let me sing and dance for the people in your, umm," she tried to remember the word, “E'snabismen, in trade for our stay here tonight!"

The barkeep considered what was at stake for her and her tavern, performing a quick mental cost-benefit analysis. “Alright, fine, fine. These two yokels are finishing up anyway pretty soon. But if you scare off my patrons I'm kicking you out."

Namo all but jumped out of her seat, both hands propped on the counter. “Oh, thank you Maggie! I won't disappoint ya!"

Maggie waved a hand as if to say “sure, whatever" and turned back to her human companion. “So for now I guess that's 25 for the food and drink."

With a visible sigh of relief, Martin proffered the required coin, which the barkeep accepted. “I'll be back in a few with supper." Martin thanked her for her accommodation and looked to Namo. Her ears flicked and her tail wiggled back and forth in visible excitement. Martin couldn't help but feel a bit of excitement too, despite himself. Maybe having Namo around was good for something, after all.

A few minutes later, a man about Martin's age, but with a similar world-weary expression and hooked nose as Maggie Joplin, returned with two bowls of stew, one in each hand. He gripped them by the rim of the bowl, which was probably not the most hygienic way he could have carried the food, with his thumbs nearly submerged in the broth. He handed the pair their bowls of stew and pointed to the one in front of Namo. “No beef," he said, a bit boorishly. He pulled a pair of spoons from his apron and unceremoniously placed them between the two. Without waiting for so much as a thank-you, he left to return to the kitchen. That didn't stop Namo from calling out “Thank you, mister!" nonetheless. Martin, hungry as he was, wasted no time in digging in. The taste was fairly standard as far as tavern food went, and could have used a bit more salt, but Martin was far from picky. Namo similarly gulped down the meatless bowl. He hoped that her non-human physiology wasn't allergic, or otherwise intolerant to, animal products.

In the midst of their eating, the proprietor, presumably in between serving other patrons, walked by the pair. “How's everything?"

Martin, mouthful of stew, could only nod appreciatively. Namo gave an enthusiastic “mm-hmm!"

Ms. Joplin managed a small smile. “So, you traveling north from Benuun?"

Namo, hunched over her bowl and finishing the mouthful of stew, save for the bit that dribbled back into the bowl, couldn't respond for a moment. With a swallow, she replied “Oh, me? No, I'm from Jeju, but I have a few old friends who moved there. Why do you ask?"

“Most of the fauns in these parts seem to come from Benuun. My guess is it's because the business with the mayor." Martin would have inquired further, but a patron waved her attention over, cutting their conversation short. “Just so you know, five minutes and you're on," Joplin said, gesturing toward the stage.

The two finished their food in relative silence as the musicians finished their performance, leaving the stage empty for a moment. “Nervous?" Martin asked.

Namo put her bowl down and wiped her mouth with her fluffy arm. “Nope. No room for nervousness! My heart is too full of song."

“Knock 'em dead, Namo." Martin said, similarly wiping broth from his lips and beard. He flashed the faun woman a sincere smile, which she returned twofold.

“Nobody's going to die, but I think I know what you mean!" She said, hopping down from the stool and making her way to the stage. As she walked up the wooden steps, Martin heard a few patrons murmur in surprise and confusion. “Exotic talent?" was one phrase he heard nearby. A couple patrons cat-called her, a gesture which he wondered whether she understood. The faun woman waved at people and then called over the crowd. “I was inspired by the last musicians who so wonderfully shared their lovely music. We clap hands for that, right?" She gave tentative applause in appreciation for the preceding performers and a few people joined, presumably the most inebriated among the crowd. Nevertheless, Martin noticed that she was quickly commanding the undivided attention of most of the patrons in the establishment, though whether it was because of her non-human status or some other quality about her, he couldn't say. Regardless, even Ms. Joplin had turned her back on the customers at the bar for a moment to scrutinize the faun.

Namo continued. “I wanted to share some of my favorite songs, music of my language—it's called Kepmuun—as thanks for sharing your music with me. I hope you will enjoy and think about the songs, because they're important to me, don'tcha know? Well then, here I go." She took a deep breath. The background noise of the bar, previously a dull roar, had lulled to a mere whisper of its prior volume. All eyes were almost literally on Namo.

Her first melody began slow and somber, in the same language in which she always sang, which he supposed was called Kepmuun. Namo's voice went deep, deeper than he realized it could based on her speaking voice, almost husky in its timbre. The structure of the song was so unfamiliar to him that he would know how to dance to it if he wanted to, but Namo had no problem beginning a gentle swaying dance with a rhythm that was clear to her, at least. Her singing purposefully seemed to mismatch the movements of her dance. Martin wasn't sure he exactly knew what the word meant, but he might have considered the rhythm to be “syncopated", based on eavesdropped conversations he had heard folks having at the bar back in Vernon.

As she continued the song, Namo's voice intensified in emotion, taking on a nearly pleading tone that resounded along the wooden walls of the impoverished dive bar. Martin could imagine the original composer of the song begging a fickle god for a change in what could be seen as an inevitable outcome. The rhythm of the song changed, along with her dance. Then, a rhapsodic transition, and Namo stomped a hoof, startling some of the audience. Another hoof stomp followed, then two more in a similar tempo, forming the new rhythm. The transition heralded an increase in tempo, and nearly sounded like a military march or the rhythm of galloping horses, but Namo's singing was anything but militaristic; it was jovial, as if the stomping itself was an expression of bliss accompanied by her singing. A smile stretched from ear to ear as she continued the melody. Martin looked around, noticing some other people tapping their feet to the driving rhythm. Martin also noticed, shamelessly, that he was tapping his foot too.

Namo's voice crescendoed to the point where she was belting the melody from her chest over the course of the next minute, continuing almost to a powerful, nearly earsplitting volume. Then, with a final stomp, the song concluded, at the apex of its furor. The crowd gave her a hearty round of applause and Namo nodded with a grin, thanking the crowd, her chest heaving in near breathlessness. Martin exhaled, realizing he had been holding his own breath.

After a moment to pause and take a drink, the faun woman continued singing more songs. Her subsequent selection of ballads didn't command the same attention she had at the start of her set, but they still contributed a fitting ambiance for a rough-and-tumble dive bar. Martin had finished his dinner and was enjoying his drink in the manner that one who has grown accustomed to poison enjoys the routine of consuming it. He waved the bartender over.

“Your friend there isn't so bad." She said as she approached.

“Thanks for the compliment. I'll share that you said so," he said, before taking a swig. “So, I was curious: I'm in town from up north and we don't have any fauns near us. Is it pretty typical for them to come into town? I thought they mostly kept to themselves. Earlier, you said something about business with the mayor?"

“Yeah, started 'bout six or seven months back. The new mayor has high hopes to work out some trade deals with the fauns there. I think many of the visitors are here to meet with her, but some of them must get lost enough to stop by Joplin's on their way through town," she quipped, as if she suspected the fauns of playing a prank on her and her establishment through their patronage.

“They might appreciate the rustic charm of the place," Martin replied, an attempt at humor.

The attempt, however, failed. “Be careful about laying the honey on too thick there, son, or I'll charge you extra for the rooms."

Martin attempted to dodge the criticism by not acknowledging it. “How do the locals feel about the mayor cozying up with the fauns?"

“Well, as you can see, many of us here down in skid row could use a bit more in the way of economic opportunity heading our way, and of course the well-to-do up in the Northern District have to line their pockets with our hard work somehow. So, I'd say the move is reasonably popular. It could bring more construction, labor, and even security work for us here, in exchange for handmade goods and crops from the folks in Benuun. But, as you can imagine, some folk are stubborn enough to think that we are better off on our own and not getting tangled in the affairs of a bunch of, in their words, 'cud-chewers', and they say things like they're 'too lazy' or 'too stupid' or that they can never understand our culture, things like that."

Martin shook his head. “Namo's the only faun I've met, and even I know those are all probably just stereotypes."

A particularly loud stomp from Namo on stage interrupted their conversation for a moment. “Yeah, of course, of course, but you know how it is with some people."

There was a lull in the conversation and Namo stared past the bartender to watch his fellow traveler sing her heart out. She was wailing like a banshee, except in a pleasant way, as oxymoronic as that sounded.

“So, you said you were from up north? Whereabouts?"

Martin weighed the pros and cons of disclosing his hometown to the woman and then decided he would be fine, as long as he kept his other cards close to his chest. “Up in Vernon, you know, the old mining town."

“Sure, seems about right. You have the look of a Vernonite about ya." Martin had no idea what she meant by that. “I hear not much in the way of mining exports happens these days, though."

Martin bit back a retort correcting her about how even though gold and platinum were scarce these days, it was still a regionally important exporter of copper. Instead, he simply shrugged.

“You know, we had someone else in from Vernon just a day or so ago. I wonder if you know of her?"

The utterance of the sentence of a woman who claimed to come from Vernon, as farfetched as the odds might have been, ignited his interest in the same way a lit match could ignite a bottle of lamp oil. He tried to play it cool. “Oh yeah? I might. What was her name? What'd she look like?"

“Let's see. Never got her name, but she looked kinda plain, to be honest. Maybe a bit older than you, mid to late teens. Built like an ox. Other than that, she looked like anyone else, really. Oh, but the thing that made her stand out from everybody: she had this nasty looking knife at her hip. Looked more like a machete or small sword, really." She gestured the approximate size, about 40 centimeters or so. “But it had a beautiful handle and sheath. Silver, with something engraved on it maybe. Gorgeous looking thing, in a morbid kind of way. A little risky to bring to this part of town, if you catch my drift, but I wouldn't be caught dead trying to test that theory with someone built like her."

The description of the woman, corroborating Namo's description from when they had met earlier, had all but confirmed Martin's best hopes without him so much as needing to bar hop to find a lead. He knew his intuition about this place would pay off, but tried to play it cool. “Oh yeah, she's an old acquaintance. It's been a couple of years since I've seen her though, so it's neat that she's in town. Did she say what her business here was?" The man's voice nearly faltered with anticipation—or perhaps it was apprehension.

“Well, it's funny you mention, speaking of whom…when I asked what brought her into town, she said she had a petition for Mayor Hayati. That was kind of strange, I thought. What business would someone from Vernon have with her? Another trade deal? Seems like not the best time, considering the situation with the fauns." She shrugged noncommittally. “I wonder if she got her appointment."

“Thanks, that's good to know. I'll be sure to keep an eye out for her. You said this was yesterday?" Martin's mind raced with questions. The woman's right. Mayor Hayati...What business would she have with the mayor of Fordham? It seemed that Joplin didn't have the answer, so he would likely have to pursue the lead independently.

“Yesterday, day before. Honestly, the days blur together."

Martin gave a forced chuckle. “Sure, tell me about it."

Namo had transitioned to a new song, singing a soft, sweet melody. With the lull in conversation, Joplin changed the subject. “So, how'd you meet the girl?" she asked, gesturing with her head toward the faun troubadour.

“I found her lost on the side of the road looking for directions and thought it would be easier to just take her to Fordham myself, since it was on my way and all." The statement was partially true, at least.

“Awful kind of you. Seems odd you offer to pay for her room and board here though if you just met."

“Well, what can you do. Call me a generous spirit." This statement was, perhaps, less true than his prior one.

“I would, were it not for the fact she seems to be doing pretty well for herself on stage, without your help." She turned and noticed that there were quite a few coins in the tip basket at the front of the stage. “I hope you don't mind that I'll be taking that cred to cover your rooms, just so we're understanding."

Martin was a bit miffed by the audacity to scalp tips from Namo. “What? That wasn't the deal we made. You said rooms for her performance, not her tips. Those are hers."

“I don't remember seeing anything in writing," the woman retorted, “but I don't reckon you're in much of a place to negotiate anyways." A pause and a mirthless smirk. “But to borrow your phrase, I'm also a generous soul, so I'll let you keep the tips and the room. I just wanted to see how ya reacted. Interesting for someone who just picked a stray off the road to be so protective of her finances."

The observation caught Martin off guard. “I-it's not like that. It's the principle of the matter, really," he stammered.

A knife-twist by the bartender: “Didn't think someone with 30 cred to his name would have the luxury of having principles." Martin winced, and Joplin laughed. “Oh, you know I'm only pullin' your leg. It's good you care for her. Seems like she's happy." She turned to go chat up another patron.

Martin didn't see a point in arguing with the woman. He and Namo would go their separate ways soon enough.