Chapter Seven #3
“Of course,” Juniper said proudly.
“Don’t forget the upsell!” An equally squawk-like voice sounded from a small back room.
A moment later, a bespectacled woman emerged, leaning on her cane with one hand.
“Oh, look at you, sonny. Just the picture of distress. Do you need a place to stay tonight? We have a room above. Though unfortunately, it’s only—”
“Only one bed,” Juniper said dismally. “I know.”
“We’re all right,” Mo said. “Thank you. Just the bedroll, please. And a hunting knife for him.”
Juniper joined the illustrious ranks of people in this small one-and-a-half-room shop who sounded like distressed birds. “A knife?” he asked. “For me?”
“Of course,” Mo said. “Your knife was small, and if you’re going to be knocking more people out, you’ll need something with a better hilt. Also, best to have an extra in case you kick it away with your trousers or something.”
Mo, of course, had not meant to embarrass Juniper.
But the shopkeepers turned identical sets of sea-green eyes on him, both clearly quite curious about what sort of man kicked off his pants in the woods and left them there.
“Oh, dear,” the woman said finally. “Do you need trousers? We’ve got just the thing.”
“No, no,” Mo said. “He doesn’t need pants.”
“Mo?” Juniper squeaked.
Was a squeak better or worse than a squawk? He couldn’t decide.
“Please stop,” Juniper said, recovering his wits. “Divona above, I’d just like a bedroll, please. If I wanted to be humiliated, I’d be paying a very different sort of person for that kind of thing. No offense,” he added when the man across the counter frowned.
It was Mo’s turn to shake his head. “Right, then,” he said, fishing for a few coins from his own pocket. “It’s all right,” he said when Juniper reached for his own coin purse. “I have a few left. Let me, since I’m the one who doesn’t want to spend the night in town.”
The bird-shopkeepers turned to look at him.
It was uncanny, the way their heads swiveled at the same time. Maybe they were birds.
Juniper racked his mind for stories about shifters. Did some shifters take the shape of owls or storks or pelicans? He would have to consult Mo.
The elderly pair, whether they were or were not birds of some kind, fished out a bedroll that looked as if it had seen better days. It was a gray-blue thing, a heavy, thick material Juniper didn’t quite recognize.
“What is that made of?” he asked. “My skin is very delicate, and at home I care for it three times daily—”
“It’s take it or leave it,” the woman told him flatly. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some of our creams or potions?”
Juniper shuddered. “Oh, I couldn’t,” he told her. “I’m very careful, and my skin is grateful.”
Mo, whose skin was as clear as could be and twice as soft, snorted. “Let’s go, then,” he said. “Do you know if any of the bakers or other merchants are open this late in the evening? We’re looking to restock our provisions.”
Of course, at this, the shopkeepers began talking over each other about how they would be happy to sell bread and other provisions.
Finally, when it was clear Juniper and Mo would get nothing besides rampant greed, Juniper clutched his scratchy bedroll against his chest (this really might give him hives) and backed slowly toward the door.
Mo leaned down, his mouth close to Juniper’s ear. “Can I interest you in buying a dirty pair of underwear?” he asked in his best impression of the birdlike voices.
“Or perhaps a bit of moldy cheese?” Juniper countered.
And then they were out the door, hustling off down the street, the calls of the shopkeepers still echoing behind them.
Despite the day, despite it all, Juniper was still laughing so hard he snorted at Mo’s impressions as they found their way to a bakery (much less drama, only a tired man with a snow-white beard happy to sell them his last loaves for the day) and then another merchant who sold them cheese and jerky (oh, beloved cheese, Juniper was so happy he did not notice at all what this merchant looked like).
He only hesitated once at the edge of town, glancing longingly over his shoulder toward lights and noise and mead and beds.
“You’re sure?” he asked one more time.
Okay, well, maybe he asked it four or five or seven more times, but overall he was being very brave. And he was mostly joking, now, and Mo was smiling at him the way he always did, and things would be all right, if Juniper could just keep that smile on Mo’s face.
Things got a little better when Mo shared the small bottle of mead that had somehow survived the dragon attack, and thank all the gods for that.
Juniper was never particularly religious, but when it came to the preservation of perfectly good booze, he was ready to be a most ardent devotee of the old saints and deities.
Mo decided on a small clearing near the river, but not so near the river that they were likely to encounter wild animals or raiders or any other number of dangers he very freely told Juniper about.
Telling Juniper about the dangers of the wilderness right before he was supposed to sleep out in it was very rude, but Juniper kept his peace. And by kept his peace, Juniper meant he did not have enough air in his lungs for arguing, chasing, or wrestling.
It was only after they settled in for the night that Juniper realized Mo had, ever so quietly, laid out his own bedroll for Juniper and taken the scratchy one for himself.
He knew, because it smelled just like Mo. Woodsmoke and pine and river and chamomile and a little bit of mead.
Somehow, for reasons far behind Juniper’s comprehension, it was far easier to fall asleep wrapped in warm blankets that smelled just like Mo Elmthorn.