Chapter 7
Viv had the feeling she was going to be paying Fern twenty bits, and not because she liked the book.
She headed early to the boardwalk, moving slowly toward her noon appointment.
Her leg felt remarkably stable, and every few steps she let her weight settle onto her right heel a bit, just to test her tolerance.
Still, she stuck to a reserved pace, mostly thinking about the chapters of Heart’s Blade she’d read.
There had been a lot less swinging of the titular blade than anticipated.
As in, nearly zero, which she should’ve figured out from Fern’s grin.
In fact, the first third of the book mostly seemed to be about Mirrim’s political misadventures with a bunch of upstart arcanists, Tamora the bodyguard’s intimidation of said arcanists, and increasingly loud arguments between the two of them.
There was a lot of clever wordplay that Viv was pretty sure was mostly sarcasm.
Tamora was a stone-fey and had a few centuries on Mirrim, who was human.
They hated each other. Sort of. It was increasingly hard to tell.
Viv kept wanting them to either punch one another or hop in the sack, just so they’d sort it out.
If things didn’t change soon, she wasn’t sure she could make it to the end.
She figured she’d be waiting for Pitts to show, but he was already at Fern’s shop. His wagon was parked to the side of the thoroughfare, and he sat on the boardwalk with his hands dangling between his knees. Four planks lay beside him, along with a saw, a mallet, and a couple of other tools.
He hoisted himself to his feet as she approached.
“Hey, thanks,” she called as she set her crutch against the boardwalk rail and held her balance against the post.
“Ought to be what you need. Got things to do, so I’ll come by in a few hours to get my tools.” He leaned toward her and earnestly added, “Don’t leave ’em out, mind.”
“Of course not.”
He looked from her to the stack of supplies and back. “Brought extra. Just in case.”
“I’m pretty sure I can manage.”
Pitts shrugged. “Guess the worst that happens is there’s a new hole.” Then he stepped into the traces and trundled off.
“It’s just a gods-damned board or two,” muttered Viv. She thought about poking her head in to greet Fern, but then figured she might as well get on with it.
Pitts had also provided a wooden box of long iron nails, a steel pry bar, and a charcoal pencil.
Viv eased down to her butt on the boardwalk and hefted the top plank, then slid it alongside the rotten board. Too long.
“Not that complicated,” scoffed Viv, marking the plank with the pencil.
Taking the saw in hand, she arranged herself awkwardly with her bandaged leg kicked out and her torso twisted to try to get the right angle.
With one hand on the board, she set to cutting.
Unfortunately, the other end slithered around with every backstroke, and the saw’s teeth hitched and hung.
Swearing under her breath, she muscled the sawblade back and forth, ripping down through the board until the end canted away.
She snapped it off with her fingers, leaving a ragged spine of wood projecting.
Staring at the lopsided cut and the fringe of splinters around the edge, Viv sighed and looked at the remaining planks, which suddenly seemed too few.
“Well, shit.”
It took another two boards to get a properly clean cut, which involved a very uncomfortable and awkward arrangement of her legs to keep things steady. By then she’d figured out how to make sure, smooth strokes. She decided that the end result wasn’t too embarrassing.
Ripping out the old board was simple, at least. She popped it off easily with a little muscle applied to the metal pry bar.
Hammering in the nails was trivial too. Too much so. She delivered sharp, accurate strokes, with nary a bruised thumb, smiling as she did so. This was a language in which every muscle of her arm was fluent.
On the final stroke, she brought the mallet down so hard, a crack shot from the nail almost to the center of the entire plank. She swore so loudly that the door flew open behind her.
“What in the faithless fuck?” cried Fern. Potroast yapped anxiously behind her.
Viv glanced up guiltily. “Uh, just … doing some repairs?”
Fern stared at her open-mouthed, taking in the powdering of sawdust, the boards tossed into the street, and the ruined, half-installed plank.
“I … why … ?” The rattkin seemed at a loss for words.
“The rotten plank I told you about. You remember? I almost put my foot through it. Well … I did put my crutch through it first, and …” Viv looked at the hammer, then squinted back at her. “I’ve almost got it?”
Fern closed her mouth, seized the clasp of her cloak like she wanted to crush it, then shut the door on Potroast and walked in the direction of the beach without another word.
After some careful and nervous resizing of the last whole plank, Viv kept a handle on her strength as she nailed it in place. She held her breath on the final strokes as she knocked the nailheads flush.
When she pulled herself to her feet, she considered her handiwork with satisfaction. The fresh wood stood out, but in time it ought to weather enough to match. Another year, and you’d never know. Gathering her crutch, she stumped over and set her full weight on the plank. Not so much as a creak.
By the time she’d swept away the sawdust, organized the tools, and arranged the junk wood in the street, Pitts was rolling back up to the shop.
He examined the wreckage of Viv’s first attempts and the finished product, and she almost expected him to laugh or shake his head, but he simply began loading the wood and his tools onto the cart.
“So, what do I owe you?” she asked.
“What do I owe you?” came a high voice from behind her. Fern had approached silently, with a long loaf of bread cradled in the crook of her arm, her red cloak fluttering in the breeze.
“Wood was just scrap,” said Pitts, without turning around.
Somehow, Viv didn’t believe him.
Apparently, Fern didn’t either. “Come on up here, Pitts. You’re not getting away without some damn lunch.” She fixed Viv with a glare that seemed entirely unwarranted. “And neither are you.”
Potroast only had eyes for the fresh loaf of bread as Fern led the way inside. Viv followed, feeling awkward about it, but not as awkward as Pitts looked when he tentatively ducked under the doorframe, flinching as though the shelves might topple over on him in an avalanche of paper.
Fern bustled to the counter, shoved a stack of books aside, and set down the loaf she’d bought.
She went into the back and returned with a long knife and a muslin-wrapped bundle.
Unfolding it beside the bread, she revealed a hard length of sausage and a yellow wedge of cheese that smelled of cream and salt and summer grass.
Without a word, she sawed off slices of bread and piled them with hunks of cheese and discs of sausage, handing them to the two orcs without really looking at either of them.
Then she cut a portion for herself and flipped a rind of cheese to the gryphet, who gobbled it down and wagged his tail for more.
Finally, she met their eyes. “Well? Eat!” She took a bite herself and chewed defiantly.
“Uh, are you—” Viv began.
“Eat.”
“Okay, fine.” Viv tore off a corner with her teeth. The bread was, predictably, incredible—sour and soft with a chewy crust that flaked away in the mouth.
Pitts wolfed his down with a slightly hunted look.
Fern cleared her throat. “Thank you both,” she said carefully. She stared hard at Pitts. “Can I interest you in a book?”
Viv didn’t think he looked interested, but Pitts also seemed to recognize the path of least resistance. He reached tentatively for the smallest one he could find, and held it up between thumb and forefinger. It looked even tinier there. “This one?”
“Thorns and Pinions. A very fine book of poetry. It’s yours,” said Fern with a regal nod.
“I … gotta be goin’,” said Pitts. He made a halting bow and backed out of the shop.
Viv watched him depart, smiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody that terrified of a free lunch.”
Fern was staring at the closed door. She glanced down at her meal, tossed the whole thing onto the floor for Potroast to savage, and promptly burst into tears.
“Fuck,” sobbed Fern. “What am I doing here? I’m relying on charity to fix a broken board.”
Viv had never felt less equal to the needs of a moment. She ushered the rattkin onto her stool, whereupon the girl folded her arms on the counter and buried her face in them.
“Come on, it can’t be that bad … can it?” mumbled Viv.
Fern’s sigh was watery. “I can’t keep on this way. Not for much longer. Maybe a month.”
“This place has been around a while, right? I’m sure it can last a few more than that.”
The rattkin raised her head to fix Viv with a bleak gaze.
“Fifty years. That’s how long it’s been here.
My father opened this place. I grew up here.
Used to sleep in that shelf over there when I was little.
” She pointed to the far corner. “He left it to me when he died, and it’s going to be me that runs it into the fucking ground.
Gods, what would he say if he could see? ”
Viv awkwardly patted her shoulder. “I don’t know a lot about running a shop, but … what’s changed?”
“Nothing has changed. It’s all the same. Well, that’s not true. It’s all shabbier. Half falling apart. And I guess I’m the main thing that’s different.”
“Uh. Maybe … maybe that’s the problem, then?”
Fern’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not very good at consoling, are you?”
“Oh, no, I don’t mean you. I mean … doing things the same way.” Viv winced apologetically. “Sorry, this is really not my area.”
The rattkin laughed a little. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re the most interesting customer I’ve had in a month.”
“Wow, that is bad.”
Fern’s weak laugh turned into a hitching snort. When she recovered, she said, “You know, it’s not because I haven’t thought about it. About changing things. But it always seems like there’s no time or money to patch the holes. Just enough to keep tossing water overboard.”
Viv rubbed the back of her neck. “Well, one less hole today. I guess I made that one, though, so it probably doesn’t count as progress.”
Fern shrugged, resting her chin on her crossed arms.
“If you could change something, what would it be?” asked Viv.
The rattkin was quiet for a long time. Viv guessed she wasn’t going to get an answer.
Then, “So much. The inventory. Those fucking sea charts. Newer printings. Some paint on the walls. Magically transport the whole place to a city full of bibliophiles.” She glanced at Viv.
“What would you change? You’ve got a recent first impression. ”
Viv tried to look apologetic. “Uh, the smell? Probably that carpet too.”
“The smell?”
“Yeah, it sort of smells … yellow. And not a good yellow.” She eyed the gryphet. “Kind of like somebody dunked him in a bucket.”
Potroast hooted indignantly and nipped at her boot.
Fern laughed again, then lapsed into silence. After a while, she quietly said, “Thanks for your help today. Thanks for listening to me complain.”
“You’re the only thing keeping me sane around here,” replied Viv. “I’ve got a vested interest.”
The rattkin perked up and her expression cleared. “How’s Heart’s Blade treating you then?”
“Well, I’m …” Viv started to hedge, then thought better of it. “I’m just getting started. I’ll let you know when I finish.”
“Not enough swords for you?”
“I’m reserving judgment, okay?”
Fern pressed herself back up from the counter and shook out her whiskers. She cut another couple of slices of bread and passed one over.
While Viv chewed, the rattkin surveyed her shop again. “The carpet? Really? I’m so preoccupied with all the bigger problems, I don’t really think about the small things. I guess it could use a good beating.”
Viv swallowed and shook her head. “No. It could use a good burning.”