For three decades, Barnabas was the most ignored man in Zealand. To residents who beheld him daily, he was just an old man who cleared the granaries of pests, moving like a ghost in his burlap rags and tattered coats. People who needed his service paid him in stale bread and copper coins. He had eyes everywhere, watching the busy streets of Zealand even when people went about their business unbothered.
He was a man who held the secrets of the town in his palm—a language the wealthy had forgotten. He knew where floorboards creaked, which alley held the secret of smuggled goods, and exactly where the town guards took their afternoon nap. This particular afternoon, people in the town were celebrating their annual harvest festival. Barnabas leaned on his heavy wooden staff and clamped his root pipe as he watched the bustling town. Crisis was brewing beneath the walls of the town, unnoticed by everyone except Barnabas, who could detect fishy activities.
The little creature nestled on his hip wasn't just for show; it was trained to smell trouble from afar. On a more careful look, Barnabas realized a group of people who had come for the festival were planning to execute the duke, while on the other side were the fine lords lost in their laughter and merriment. He knew no one would listen to the old man in rags, but as a secret guardian of the town, it was his duty to spoil their plans. It was time for him and his rodent to save the town in secret, leaving the lords to toast to a peace they didn't know they almost lost.
