Chapter 8
“What in the Eight are you doing here?” Highlark seemed halfway between annoyed and thoroughly surprised. “It’s two days until I’m due to see you at your room.” He glanced up and down the street, as though someone had spirited Viv to his doorstep.
She gave a half-shrug, leaning fully on her crutch. “I figured I’d get out and see the rest of Murk, and once I was here, I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. Not really hard to find the place.”
Highlark’s surgery sat near the center of the town snugged within the fortress walls, and everybody knew where it was.
The building was tall, narrow, and neatly kept, with flower boxes in both the upper and lower windows, which Viv found oddly amusing.
An iron sign in the shape of a healer’s staff and crescent was mounted above the lintel.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you want? You’re caring for the wound daily like I showed you, yes?”
“Yeah, of course. But … well, maybe you could take a look. That callis oil seemed to work pretty well. Maybe I should do that again?”
“Again?” He looked shocked.
“Yeah. Wouldn’t that get me off this crutch faster?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” he said with an exasperated tone.
Now that he wasn’t wearing a rain cowl, Viv could see the elf cut a fine figure in a crisp white shirt and finely tailored trousers. For some reason, she’d expected him to appear at his door in a bloody smock. She was glad to note that the bruises on his neck were nearly gone.
“I doubt very much that I can offer any other advice until you’ve healed further. And even if I could, it’s clear you wouldn’t pay it any mind. Come in, if you must.” He opened the door the rest of the way and ushered her in with a resigned air.
As Viv entered Highlark’s office, she was surprised to find that it looked more like a bookshop than the real thing. One wall was nothing but floor-to-ceiling shelves, complete with rolling ladder. The spines looked to be in excellent condition, gleaming as though oiled.
“Wow,” she said.
A small desk sat before the shelves, piled with notes, folders, an appointment book, and an unlit lantern. She must have interrupted him in his work. It didn’t look much like surgery, as far as Viv was concerned.
Highlark strode past a staircase leading up, and through a white door into the back.
Astringent smells assaulted Viv’s nose as she followed into a very different room.
Modern flick-lanterns lit the area brightly, their low hiss filling the air.
A pair of long, padded tables stood in the center, and the walls were covered in charts, notes, and illustrations.
Vast counters with rows and rows of drawers below them ran along every wall.
Bottles, boxes, neatly folded linen, and jars of blue fluids stood ready.
She even spied several small—but exceptionally detailed—wooden skeletons of various races suspended from metal arms by thread.
“Up,” said Highlark, gesturing to the furthest table. “I suppose you’re saving me a trip. And if you can make your way here once, you can do it again, if the need arises.”
As Viv slid onto the table—she didn’t even have to push herself up—she grimaced and pulled Heart’s Blade out of her back pocket to lay it beside her. Highlark lifted her injured leg and rested her heel on the table opposite.
Without another word, he deftly unwrapped her bandages. When the flesh was exposed, he made an involuntary sound of consternation.
“What?” asked Viv.
Highlark didn’t answer, instead bringing his spectacles up to examine her wounds. He prodded the flesh, and while it was still very tender, her head didn’t go all swimmy at the pressure, as it had during his last visit.
“It’s getting on fine,” he said. He straightened, letting his spectacles dangle back against his chest.
It did look a lot better. Her leg was still very swollen, but it wasn’t actively oozing, and the hot blush of red had receded to a fainter and less far-reaching pink.
Highlark glanced at the book, and his expression registered a different shade of surprise. “A little light reading?”
“Yeah, I think Fern has made a project of me.”
“Fern?”
“You know, at the bookshop. You must have been there before?” She gestured vaguely in the direction of Highlark’s library.
“Ah! No, I’ve not made her acquaintance.”
“Huh. Where’d you get all the books, then?”
Highlark squinted at her. “They’re mostly specialty volumes. Reference texts. I’d be surprised if those were the sort of books she carried. A shabby little place, isn’t it?” He opened a drawer, removing a tub of salve and a length of gauze.
As he applied the ointment and rebound her thigh, she asked, “Does that matter? It’s all words in the end, right?” Quite apart from her wound, she felt a mild sting of indignation on Fern’s behalf.
The elf stared at her quizzically, as though she’d suddenly been replaced with someone else entirely. “Why so interested?”
“I dunno. I guess I’ve gotten more out of the place than I expected, and I figured that people who already have books would go to … book places.”
“She recommended this book to you?”
“Yeah. Although I think she’s maybe trying to get a rise out of me at the same time.”
“Russa Tensiger. An elven author. Quite accomplished.” Highlark picked up the volume and examined it thoughtfully. “And you’re reading it?”
“I’m half through. So you do read things that aren’t … what did you call them, reference texts?”
“From time to time.” He handed the book back.
Highlark had her make a circuit around the room, watching as she moved on the crutch and asking her to apply more weight to her heel. Then he had her stand without support, shifting her weight on and off her wounded leg.
It still hurt like hells, but maybe not all eight of them.
Finally, he observed her thoughtfully, tapping his spectacles against his chin for what seemed like a long time. Then he swapped the crutch for a walking staff he produced from a tall cupboard in the corner.
“Your associates have already paid for your care. I’d like to see you back in a week, yes?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“And when you do, I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts on what you’ve read.”
His lips held just the hint of a smile as he closed the door and left her alone on the street.
Viv reveled in the freedom of movement the walking staff afforded. Unfortunately, her bare heel and toes, while callused and tough, were already getting battered on the cobblestones of the town proper now that she was walking more ably.
After collaring a few townsfolk for directions, she found a cobbler and convinced him to sell her a single large sandal, although he had to lengthen the thong to accommodate her swollen foot. The result was an enormous improvement, and Viv was immediately thankful.
The area within Murk’s fortress walls was considerably more crowded than the beachfront rows, both in terms of buildings and people. Even the seabirds seemed to bunch too close on the rooftops, and Viv found herself longing for the open air and clean dunes outside.
A market street ran straight through the heart of the city, packed on all sides with merchants, net-menders, another inn or two, a mishmash of trades, and a stable near the gate.
There was even an open lot with jumbles of furnishings, clothing, and miscellanea on trestle tables packed into its boundaries.
A pair of young gnomes that looked like brothers appeared to be trying to liquidate an estate.
She came across a familiar sight midway back to the beach—a bounty board checkered with requests.
None of the scant postings were big jobs, but they were a stark reminder that she wasn’t fit to take on even one of them.
Precious few beast hunts or brawls lay in her immediate future.
Her mouth thinned, and she cursed her leg under her breath.
As she was closing the distance to the fortress gate and looking forward to the quiet of the beach, she suddenly stopped short. The skin at the back of her neck crawled, and the wood of the walking staff creaked as her grip tightened.
It took her only an instant to spy him between passersby. He almost completely blended into the shadows of a small courtyard beside the chandler’s shop.
His cloak was the gray of fog and travel-frayed, and the skin of his exposed hands was pale, nearly white.
An overstuffed pack weighed down one shoulder, and his hood was up, so that only the blade of his nose was visible.
It twitched her way, and she sensed a galvanic tension in his stance, a wariness.
That dangerous promise in the way he held himself made Viv scan him for a weapon that wasn’t there. She almost let go of her staff as her hand involuntarily jerked toward the saber that used to be belted to her waist.
Then a group of three sailors broke her line of sight. When they’d passed by, he was gone.
She searched the crowd for him, but in the end, it wasn’t like she could mount a pursuit in the state she was in. Viv gave up and carried on, but the image of him nagged at her, prickling her survival instincts in a way she’d learned not to ignore.
As she passed through the front gate, Viv glanced to the side to find Iridia the Gatewarden in conference with others in the same blue uniform.
There seemed an awful lot of Wardens in Murk, but Viv supposed a garrison was kept against the unlikely event of trouble from the west again.
Or maybe they’d gotten word of Varine’s progress up the coast and were taking precautions.
Stories of the wreckage left in her wake had to have trickled here by now.
Almost as though she could sense her presence, the head Warden interrupted their conversation to fix Viv with her golden eyes.
The tapenti eyed her up and down and Viv could feel the challenging weight of that regard.
She returned the stare in kind, but only one of them needed a staff to get around, and she imagined she saw that knowledge reflected.
Viv felt like she was fleeing the field of battle as she passed out of sight.
She came to a halt a few yards outside the fortress walls, heedless of the traffic flowing around her, and took a long breath of briny air.
For the first time in several days, Viv regretted leaving her sword in her room.
As she made her way up the slope and past the bakery, still trying to shed an anxious mood, a bell tinkled and someone called out to her.
“Viv!”
Maylee emerged from Sea-Song Bakery, the scent of sourdough arriving with her. There was no line out the shop door, so the day’s rush must have been over.
“You’re gonna make a lady think she’s lost her touch,” accused the dwarf, dusting the flour from her apron as she stepped down. In her other hand she held a folded paper sack.
“Huh?”
“Well, you haven’t been back since, hon.” She flipped her thick braid back over her shoulder, her cheeks still rosy from heat, or hard work, or both. “A baker could take offense.”
“Oh! Oh, no, those biscuits? They were great. Amazing, even! But I’m surprised you even remember my name.”
Maylee rolled her eyes, as though that was ridiculous. “I see you’ve got some new transportation?”
Viv banged the staff against the ground. “Moving up in the world.”
The woman offered the sack. “You’re at The Perch, ain’t you? Here’s a little somethin’ for the hike up the hill. Had a few spares.”
Viv took it, raising her brows at the dwarf. Then she peeked inside. Four or five muffins filled the sack, crusted with nuts and sugar.
“Seems like the Eight granted you a second chance.” Maylee winked at Viv and reentered the bakery without another word. The bell tinkled after her.
“Uh, thanks!” Viv called belatedly to the closed door.
She withdrew one of the muffins and took a bewildered bite. An involuntary moan escaped her lips. The rest of the muffin didn’t survive long.
“Second chance?” she mumbled through the final mouthful. Then she licked her fingers clean and walked on, shaking her head.